


willing to share

by bastaerd



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Comfort Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, despite the title this does not involve any threesomes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:34:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25725979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastaerd/pseuds/bastaerd
Summary: Goodsir had had the good sense as they had first entered the tent to do up the flaps to keep the cold air out as much as it is possible, and that now doubles as an extra boundary between their privacy and the outside world. It is one thing to be in such a need on the ship, where, though walls were thin, doors could shut and lock; it is another to do this with only a tent for protection from both the elements and their fellow men.It is strange how foolhardy men can become in the face of danger.
Relationships: Henry Collins/Harry D. S. Goodsir
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	willing to share

Their booted feet shuffle against the snow, Collins’ and Goodsir’s, the only doctor who remains leading the way. Collins has since lifted his head from Goodsir’s shoulder, but his eyes are too fogged-over to see what’s in front of him. There is no definite comfort to be had, not since the water had branded the silhouette of Billy Orren’s corpse into the insides of Collins’ eyelids, and certainly not now, his stomach churning at the phantom scent of meat. Whether it is from nausea or hunger, Collins cannot tell, and fears the latter. His senses feel foreign to him, as if charting unnavigated waters with an unfamiliar ship. How ironic, then, that he had felt right at home, when that had been the very thing they were doing. It had been adventurous.

The hungry will only get hungrier, Collins knows, and knows that Goodsir knows it, as well, likely in more detail, what with his study of the human body. How long will he make it before the growling of his stomach drowns out the screaming voice in his head? He spots Hodgson, from Terror, helping Irving with a trunk. Will they retain their hierarchy, when it happens, or will they cut into seamen and officers alike? Will they develop tastes, recognize men not by name or face but by the marbling of their meat?

Collins shudders under Goodsir’s arm, belatedly realizing that they have come back to his tent-- Collins’, that is, the closer and quieter of the two. Sound from outside falls away in dribs and drabs. When he finally raises his eyes to Goodsir’s face, he finds the doctor still watching him with that same expression from before. It makes Collins feel as if he is falling from a very tall height, but instead of the sea waiting to claim him as it did Billy, here is a dark-eyed, soft-spoken doctor. Collins finds that he trusts those unmuscled arms as well as any to catch him. Better, even. Goodsir says nothing, only regards him with raised, slightly furrowed brows, waiting to follow his lead. Collins is far beyond the point of speaking any more than he has already, even beyond the point of apologizing for his sudden taciturnity after all he had admitted just minutes ago, but does not feel pressured into doing so for the sake of good manners. Still, the thought of not acknowledging it in some way makes his stomach rise to his throat. Finding that Goodsir still has a hand on one of his shoulders, he reaches up and covers it with his own hand. It is less an expression of apology and more one of gratitude; Goodsir seems to recognize it as such, and his mouth pulls into a small smile that makes Collins ache to see.

His eyes still burn at the edges with the remnants of his tears from earlier. Crying in this kind of cold freezes them, and little icey pieces cling to his lower lashes, just barely visible at the bottom of his field of vision. In here, they are beginning to thaw again, and Collins feels them melt and drip down his cheeks again as if they are a new bout of tears altogether. He is about to scrub them, and what has yet to melt away, off with his wrist, but Goodsir raises a hand towards his face, eyes imploring, and Collins nods, just once. The tips of Goodsir’s fingers are chilled, as they sweep just under Collins’ right eye, brushing those little beads away, and then under his left. Collins blinks, his lashes grazing knuckles. Moisture prickles his eyes again, but it is not from recalling Carnivale.

When he had talked to Dr. Stanley, revealed the recently-grown darkness lingering in his mind in corners he has learned to avoid, the doctor had dismissed his concerns. _I am a doctor of medicine,_ he had told him, and later that very evening, had sought to cauterize a gaping wound. Collins finds himself feeling more like McDonald; opened up from belly to breastbone, gutted like a seal.

There is a soft noise that comes from Goodsir, and then the weight of his arms at Collins’ shoulders again. He folds himself towards and around him, drawing his own arms under Goodsir’s and flattening his palms against his back until they are up against each other. The gaping rift torn through him is still in need of closure, but, like this, it is held closed by Goodsir’s body, guarding his insides from spilling out onto the ice.

He makes a wordless, wretched sound. Goodsir breathes in sympathy, and as Collins’ legs give out, goes with him to his knees, the two of them propped against each other to slow the descent and make it gentler. Of their own volition, Collins’ hands clench themselves into fists and then open again, grasping at the back of Goodsir’s coat until he compels them to stay still. The restlessness lingers in his fingers. It is as though he will shake apart if he does not keep himself moving-- that is how he has been managing for over a year now, only now there is no deck to holystone. Only the vast expanse of ice between them and Fort Resolution, an expanse that feels wider and wider with each day that passes. Sometimes Collins has the notion that it is only him in that large emptiness, only his own voice, only his own breath puffing out in front of him. It is so terribly lonely.

It is that loneliness which propels him, closes his arms tighter around Goodsir until the man shuffles forward on his knees, but he holds him in turn, rubbing his shoulders and his back. Blood rings in Collins’ ears. His chest shudders with a swallowed sob. Goodsir hushes him in a soft tone, and Collins brings one shaking hand up to the nape of his neck, then up to the back of his head, fingers winding through thick curls. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, and, when he opens them again, draws back just enough so that he can see Goodsir’s face, attentive and patient. He finds no judgment there, only concern, and to feel that directed towards himself is… It makes him feel like something other than what he knows himself to be, what he is used to being. The care with which Goodsir attends to him causes him to shudder, full-body tremors that roll through him like rough ocean. He is distantly grateful that Goodsir has left the lamp he had been carrying outside of somewhere, for the incriminating tableau they make here, but even that floats past him, swept away by the current without leaving a mark. It has been so difficult to feel anything but transient, nowadays. One more of those dinnerplates of ice under which Billy had disappeared, and under which Collins had found him again.

With a gasp as if it is his first after minutes underwater, Collins sinks to his haunches, and Goodsir makes a sound like _Oh, oh…,_ and goes with him. They do not let go of one another, nor do they want to. Collins does not, at least, and Goodsir seems reluctant to let him out of his arms. For some time, they stay that way, until it is too tiring even to sit on the ground, and they move, awkwardly but as one, to lay on the sack, where they resume their position. Without any words exchanged between the two of them, they lay close, Collins’ arms around Goodsir and Goodsir’s around Collins. Goodsir sighs against his chest. Despite the cold that imposes itself upon them, despite how exposed they both feel without the great, curving structure of the ship around them, this much, at least, is familiar. The doctor is a small, lit room in the midst of all of this, to which Collins can escape to warm himself. He does so now, closing his eyes and letting his chin fall to Goodsir’s shoulder, and feels out the shape of him. With the added bulk of his coat, his shoulders appear squarer than they do in just his shirtsleeves, but he has never needed the strength of an AB, in Collins’ eyes.

Goodsir had had the good sense as they had first entered the tent to do up the flaps to keep the cold air out as much as it is possible, and that now doubles as an extra boundary between their privacy and the outside world. It is one thing to be in such a need on the ship, where, though walls were thin, doors could shut and lock; it is another to do this with only a tent for protection from both the elements and their fellow men.

They have both wondered, separately and in quiet conversation, who of the men might actually be their fellows. The walk may just bring them those answers. It is easy to imagine finding out, as the circumstances grow more and more desperate, that they may forego discretion in favor of comfort, especially as the opportunity to face consequences thins out.

It is strange how foolhardy men can become in the face of danger.

Collins’ hands run up and down Goodsir’s arms, inching him closer with each upward pass until there is no space left between the two of them and Goodsir’s body lightly bumps up against him in a moderate rhythm. He crooks his knee to keep his balance, and as he does so, his thigh brushes against the front of Collins’ trousers, but neither of them move away from the contact. In fact, Collins is glad to have some warmth in him, a reprieve from the encroaching cold. The stirring in his groin distracts him, at any rate. If the noise Goodsir makes is any indication, he has taken notice, and quickly, as it is no small thing to notice. His hands still stiffly at Collins’ back, and he takes a slow, measured breath before angling his hips; he, too, has taken interest. Collins reaches down between the two of them to suss out the shape more clearly, press his palm to it and listen to Goodsir gasp wordlessly against his lapel. His hips jerk in an unpracticed way, but Collins is as tolerant as Goodsir has been to him. 

Seeking warmth or skin, Goodsir’s hands travel up underneath Collins’ shirt, rucking it up where his elbows lift the hem and exposing his belly and chest to the air. When Collins gets a chill that gets his nipples peaking and his hair standing on end, he shivers, and Goodsir makes a sound of apology, rubbing first his sides, and then his chest, to warm him. With hands steady as the day they had first set sail, Collins undoes Goodsir’s trousers, and then his own. In understanding, Goodsir lifts his hips, and together they untuck his shirt and push down his trousers just enough as is necessary.

At this point, the sounds from outside the tent have dimmed and moved away, the other men retreating to their own shelters for the night for sleep or for whatever warmth they may provide. Failing that, they retreat for comfort-- even a sloped canvas ceiling above their heads is better than the dark sky, higher than they can bring themselves to suspend their belief that they are cold, vulnerable, and alone.

There is a hand encircling Collins’ cock. Goodsir has extracted one hand from his shirt, and pumps Collins with a delicate touch, his surgeons’ hands as careful as can be, sweeping over the head of him to collect what has been beading and smearing there until his palm is slick with it. Then he reaches between his own thighs, as furred as Collins’ own, though with less muscle to them, and wipes what he has collected there. It takes two more passes before he is satisfied, and by that time, Collins has closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to Goodsir’s shoulder. He tugs at Goodsir’s hand, the one that had been on his cock, until it returns to his chest. Goodsir massages him there, leaving his left side tacky with the last remnants of what he had used on his thighs.

It is jerky and stilted, but Collins moves his hips of his own volition, and without compulsion. It is not an animal instinct that drives him; far from it, it is something more akin to muscle memory, something learned. He drives his cock between Goodsir’s thighs, against soft flesh, skin to which he has laid kisses on the few occasions when they had time enough to permit the indulgence. Holds his hip with one hand, palm splayed to convey whatever warmth he can to his exposed flank, his fingertips dipping into where his trousers have been kept up on account of the cold, while the other cups the back of Goodsir’s head and keeps him close. Neither of them can risk it to speak aloud, but Collins opens his mouth in the shape of _Harry, Harry,_ and Goodsir answers in kind with _Henry, Henry, Henry…_ His hands smooth arching shapes against Collins’ chest, wide like an albatross’ wings spread in flight. When the webs of his thumbs catch Collins’ nipples, his breath stutters, ruffling the curls against his face. He angles his hips, the head of his cock dragging against Goodsir’s most delicate places, and is rewarded with a gasp, muffled against his shirt for the sake of preserving their secrecy. They thank each other this way, caressing and clutching and bucking, expressing their gratitude for the fact of the other’s continued existence, and when, at last, they reach their peak-- a mess that will put Goodsir short a shirt, though the amount is less than Collins had imagined-- they lay there for a moment, recollecting each other, before straightening up their clothes..

An inventory done of himself, Collins has thought, on occasion, would necessarily include Goodsir; now it is apparent that he is as much a part of Goodsir’s inventory as Goodsir is of his. The notion of becoming lost, of losing himself, somewhere in this vastness, is not so overwhelming when he thinks that there may be some part of himself retained with the man he has called Goodsir, and doctor, and _Harry, Harry..._

He hides his face against the crown of Goodsir’s head. He smells no grease.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://harrydsgoodsir.tumblr.com), not proofreading anything and wondering if their dicks would have frozen off.


End file.
